


Tied Souls

by PuzlDragon



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Sweethearts, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Magic, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Royalty, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25080226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuzlDragon/pseuds/PuzlDragon
Summary: The world is full of people. People who bear the marks displaying the bonds between them, and those most important to them.Atem is the crown prince. He is blessed with many marks, but desires a mark of romance. He prays to the gods to receive one. What he gains is a mark never seen before.Yuugi is a loner, a nerd. He has no marks, but for the family mark of his grandpa. He has wished his whole life for a friend mark. He wishes upon the Millenium Puzzle for one. Soon, he is blessed with many. Including a golden one.A mark of entwined souls.
Relationships: Mutou Yuugi/Yami Yuugi | Atem
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Tied Souls

**Author's Note:**

> *Fake gasp.* Me? Doing something as cheesy as a soulmate au? Who would have thought?
> 
> Pleese enjoy.

Young prince Atem has many things. He has a palace as his home. He has his own horse. He has multiple friends, and wonderful parents. The only real fallback to his life is the lessons crammed in all facets of the day. Dawn to dusk, he studies. Even the priest acolytes have more time off. But is important. He must work hard, because his people rely in him to do so. So be does. But Atem is not happy.

  
Atem desires another mark. A particular mark. He has a number of them. He has beautiful indigo script for both of his parents upon his skin. A deep purple of a sibling bond with three close friends, a priest and two magicians in training. He even has a soft green lettering for three others. Three strong friend bonds. He even has a rival, the purple of Seto's mark blurring into red. But what Atem wants is specific. What he wants not all people get. And the crown on his or his father's head will not fetch it. No amount of gold will. Only the mercy of the heavens will allow him a pink mark of love.

  
Atem tosses, and turns at night. He sighs, and traces his wrists in his lessons. He picks at his food. He has these moments where he spaces out entirely. Every action, even ones he enjoys. He even traces his other marks, as a reminder he has many. A reminder he might gain another like he gained them. He traces 'Bless my son,' in hieratic. The words of his mother's mark lays right besides. It is a line from the lullaby his mother sings him.

  
"Father, when will I gain a romance mark?" Atem's father sighs. He shifts uneasily. His father does not fidget. He does not look away. He has stared down diplomatic meetings most men would wilt at with ease.

  
Atem's father is fidgeting.

  
He is running the edge of his vermilion robe between his fingers. He sighs. He looks down, meeting Atem's eyes with his own amber pools. Atem feels his hand come to rest on his bare shoulder. Atem's father pulls him closer, clasping him to his side where they sit in his office. Sun streams in, figures of rays, and shadows dance along the floor as they mimic the palm frawns outside the wind.

  
"Atem. Not everyone gets a romantic mark." They've had this discussion before. They have had this discussion dozens of times. Atem keeps asking. Somehow, his father is patient each time. His father is always patient.

  
"Soulmarks do not change our destiny. They are simply the bonds our souls find written upon our skin. The person you might find as a friend will come to you as it would in your destiny. It might come to you before you know them. But it will never be a bad relationship, nor one you will not discover. Some people do not have a romantic relationship that impacts their souls." Atem screws his face up. He knows this answer. It does not mean he likes this answer.

  
"But mother, and you have each other's marks!"

  
"Atem," his father says. This is not like any other time they've had this talk. His words are as final as the orders to his soldiers. His speeches to the nation. This is not a voice he uses with Atem.

  
His father sighs like a whisper of the breeze through the palm fronds.

  
"I can give you many things, Atem. But I cannot give you a good heart. You must keep yours pure through your own efforts. I cannot give you the good favor of the gods. You must do good in the laws of Ma'at. And I cannot give you the love of another. But with your lot in life, with all else you have, it is something that you might not receive. Your unions must be based on politics, international relations, and the good of the nation, Atem. It is rare for royalty to gain a romantic mark. I am sorry, my son." His tone is that which he used when he preformed the opening of the eyes for Atem's grandmother.

  
It settles like a weight in Atem's stomach. His whole life he has longed for the looks between his parents. The smiles. The ability to depend on another. The team his parents are.

  
Atem thinks that his father did just perform a funeral. One for his hopes. And as Atem grows, that future seems more likely.

  
He is five. Then he is six. He puts on his shendyt for the first time, and finds himself sitting at lessons for more than just royalty things. This is not about manners. This is not about how to act around politicians. This is about writing. About math. He hates it all. But he listens. His parents smile every time he reports on his learning. His indigo marks warm with joy.

  
Sometimes he isn't the best pupil. When Mana joins the classroom, they smile at each other. They giggle. They trade small scraps of used parchment at times. Little notes with doodles, and jokes. Mahaad tsks more than the teacher does. There is another flooding season. Another harvest. Atem is seven. It repeats once more.

  
However, on the early hours of Atem's eighth birthday something happens. Atem is woken from his sleep to his birthday in a boutade of emotion. Tears stream down his cheeks. He is hot. He is cold. Sweat sticks his mane to his face. To his neck. He recalls the sound of laughter. Sweet like grapes. Fizzing with laughter like new wine overflowing a cup. It echoes in the caverns of his memory. He feels like he is chasing this shadow of someone. They dart away, just beyond his grasp. He feels like they are underwater. A fish in a world echoing with water, shapes strange and distorted in Atem's grasp. He cannot reach them. He cannot reach them. He cannot reach them. 

  
Atem cries.

  
He cries, throwing his head back until he falls upon his bed. His whole body rocks with him. His eyes burn. His body burns. His body freezes. His lungs can't seem to hold enough air. Slowly, the heat in his limbs crawls itself up into his heart. It consolidates in his chest, a mass growing deeper, thicker. Atem can barely notice it. A part of him shouts to chase after that voice. To leave behind all else. To run, and run, and run.

  
But Atem starts to notice. He notices when he turns from icy heat to white hot like the metalsmith forge. He feels like charcoal, collapsing in on itself as it burns. He feels parts of himself are blowing off like ash. He feels the heat penetrate into his chest, into something core beyond just flesh, and bone. He feels he is being shredded from the inside out.

  
Distantly, he feels hands on him. He hears muffled words. Atem feels himself sinking, as well. He feels himself sink below the water. He thinks he is in that strange world just beyond. _Maybe,_ he thinks. _Maybe I can find that voice now._

  
\-----  
_Atem. Atem. Atem, wake up._

_Atem, please._

_Atem, wake up for me, son._

  
_**Atem!**_

  
Atem does not feel like he is waking up. He feels like he is being shoved off a cliff. Light wrenches itself under the edges of his eyelids. He feels he is shoved into his body like grain being dumped into a sack. Bits of himself are tumbling over each other, trying to find where they belong. Everything feels like his senses are singed. Touching even air feels like flour being grinded down.

He does not want to be here. He does not want to feel this. He wants to go back. Back to the place with the soft giggles. The place which warms his heart in miracle ways. He groans. There is muttering. A flurry of fabric rustling, steps across the floor. It all sounds like a gong banging in his ears.

  
"Atem? Atem do you hear me?" His father. It reeks of worry that Atem has never heard. Not during political meetings. Not when grandmama died. Not when he broke his ankle while on his chariot. Not during international threats of war. Atem's father does not sound worried. The steady rock through it all.

  
Why does he sound like he is going to cry?

  
"Papa..." It slips from Atem's mouth. It's a weak, frail thing.

  
"Atem!" He isn't the only one shouting. Not even counting Atem's rebellious ears, the room rings with cries of delight. Why? Because Atem sounds like a man found wandering the desert?

  
Atem pries open his eyes. He does his best to fight through the pain. As his eyes adjust, he sees his parents, ringed with the shine from the sun. His sweet mother. His strong father. His father bends his strong arms down to him. He feels himself lifted. Feels himself be encircled by his parent's arms. He is a small thing, shrouded in the voluminous robe of his father. His mother's perfume wafts around them. Atem smiles, turning into the soft linen. He lets himself drift away. It isn't the place where the soft, flitting person is. But he dreams of them. Dreams of laughter, and smiles, and games.

  
Eventually, he wakes up. He wakes up to what caused the commotion. A mark over his heart. One phrase in Hieratic. One in an unfamiliar, foreign script. Both are gold. They even shine. They glitter in the sun. As if the metal workers had poured it right into his chest. The whole thing is outlined with a mix of pinks, greens, and reds. 

  
And no one has ever seen anything like it.


End file.
